The Betrayal
by NotesfromaClassroom
Summary: Commander Spock and his teaching assistant Nyota Uhura think they are being discreet, but a new professor at the Academy has a dark secret that threatens them...in more ways than one.
1. The Adjunct Professor

**The Betrayal**

**Chapter One: The Adjunct Professor**

**Disclaimer: I don't own these characters; I just borrow them.  
**

"Commander Spock isn't here," Professor Artura says in his lisping Andorian dialect.

"Oh!" Nyota says, genuinely surprised. Slipping her backpack from her shoulders, she sets it and her PADD on the round table where Professor Artura is nursing a cup of coffee.

The Andorian professor is usually the first to arrive at the language building and consequently the one who makes the first pot of coffee for the break room. Nyota walks to the counter and is careful to pour just half a cup—she likes her coffee strong, but Professor Artura likes it _thick._

"He must be running late this morning," she says, stirring powdered creamer into her cup.

"Perhaps he had a busy night," Professor Artura says, and Nyota shoots him a look. She can't be certain, but sometimes the professor seems to enjoy startling her. From time to time he drops an innuendo or a double entendre about her relationship with Spock, though he has never said anything to her directly. "Actually," the professor says, "he was here earlier, but the dean called him away."

"Oh!" Nyota says again, sitting down and taking a sip of her coffee. "Did he say why?"

"The new adjunct professor is here," Professor Artura says, "and the dean wanted Commander Spock to show her around the campus."

"I didn't know the language department was getting a new professor," Nyota says, putting down her coffee cup. "I hope she's teaching one of the outer ring languages! Since Professor Xintha left, I've forgotten all my Malthurian—"

Professor Artura tips his antennae forward—which Nyota has come to recognize as the Andorian equivalent of a laugh.

"That's too bad," Professor Artura says, "though I imagine you will pick it back up when you have another instructor. However, Dr. Stoddard isn't teaching in the language department. She teaches interdisciplinary humanities—I believe by training she is a historian."

"Then why—"

"Is Commander Spock showing her around? You haven't heard anything about the new adjunct professor?"

Professor Artura tips his antennae again and blinks slowly.

"Ah, yes, I forgot that you weren't at the faculty assembly yesterday. The dean introduced her then. Quite impressive—and stunning. That's the word in Standard that means aesthetically pleasing, correct?"

Now Nyota knows for certain that Professor Artura is teasing her. She finishes her coffee and holds out her hand for his cup.

"Care for more?" she asks, and Professor Artura shakes his head.

"Thank you, but I must return to my office to prepare for this afternoon's lecture."

He toddles out of the break room and turns the corner toward his office. Carrying both her cup and the professor's to the sink, Nyota listens to his footfalls growing faint. He hadn't answered her question—why would Spock instead of someone in the adjunct professor's own department be showing her around the campus? That doesn't make sense. Perhaps Professor Artura was making a joke—or was mistaken.

Picking up her backpack and her PADD, she heads to the lab, unlocking it and palming on the overhead lamps. Normally she enjoys the routine of preparing the lab for the morning session, but today she is distracted. She's never been a jealous person, but she thinks again about the professor's observation: _Quite impressive—and stunning._

_This is ridiculous_, she tells herself. _Pull yourself together_.

But a few minutes later she scrolls through the latest Academy notices looking for information about Dr. Stoddard.

There it is—a short article in the faculty newsletter detailing Sarah Stoddard's academic background and accomplishments. Four university degrees and a long list of published works—and more, too—collaborative research projects funded through Federation grants and an honorary appointment to the Commission on Higher Education.

And she's only 33 years old.

Nyota reads the biographical information again. Can that be right? But the article is clear. Sarah Stoddard was born in Phoenix 33 years ago. The woman must be a genius.

Glancing through the rest of the newsletter, Nyota looks for a photograph of the new professor but sees none. That's odd. All of the other articles have several pictures each. She'll have to wait until she sees the new professor to decide for herself if Professor Artura's assessment of _stunning_ is an exaggeration.

The morning drags by unusually slowly. Twice Nyota pulls her comm out of her pocket to answer what she is sure will be messages from Spock, only to be disappointed. Even the number of students who come to the lab is lower than normal—probably because of the surprising break in the weather, sunny and warm for the first time in weeks.

By lunchtime she is so restless that she decides to leave the building and walk across the campus to the cafeteria instead of eating the sandwich she had stored in the break room refrigerator. The air is warm and dry; puffy storybook clouds scud across the blue sky, and by the time Nyota reaches the squat cafeteria building, her mood is more cheerful.

"Hey, Sally!"

Nyota looks up in time to see Jim Kirk, an apple in his hand, walking out of the cafeteria door. She meets his gaze and despite herself, laughs.

"Yes, you, Sally!" he says, tossing the apple from his left hand to his right. "Want me to join you for lunch?"

"Looks like you've already eaten," Nyota says, pushing past Kirk. He stops on the steps and she feels him watching her.

"What about dessert?" he calls, and she laughs again.

She turns her head and sees him standing in the middle of the milling crowd, one hand raised in supplication, the other still holding his apple.

"Not for you!" she says, laughing, and then she turns and walks through the door so quickly that she almost bumps into Spock.

He seems as surprised as she is—and something else, too. Discomfited? Embarrassed? Before she can think why, Nyota notices the woman standing to his side.

Of course—the new adjunct professor.

_Stunning_ does not do her justice. The professor is the most beautiful person Nyota has ever seen. Almost as tall as Spock, she is dressed in a simple dark tunic that sweeps the floor but does nothing to hide her statuesque figure. Her thick auburn hair is pulled back loosely away from her face. Her skin is so pale that her dark eyes, by contrast, look black.

But most startling of all, she is a Vulcan.

"Cadet Uhura," Spock says after what seems a very long time, "I would like to introduce you to Dr. Sarah Stoddard. Dr. Stoddard, this is my teaching assistant, Cadet Uhura."

Dimly, Nyota is aware that students exiting the cafeteria are having to detour around them, but she doesn't move.

"How…nice to meet you," she says, trying not to stutter. Sarah Stoddard? Not a traditional Vulcan name—and born in Phoenix? Nyota tries to keep the confusion from her face.

"Dr. Stoddard begins her classroom duties next week. I am helping her become oriented with the most relevant parts of the campus."

"Perhaps you would care to join us," Dr. Stoddard says, but Nyota shakes her head.

"Thank you, but, uh, no, I'm just on my way in to get some lunch."

She looks from Spock to Dr. Stoddard and adds, "Good luck getting settled in. The Commander will be a good tour guide."

Dr. Stoddard inclines her head slightly and Spock motions her forward and down the stairs. As he passes Nyota, they make eye contact—and for a fleeting moment Nyota considers brushing his hand to reassure herself that all is well.

But the moment passes, and she moves on into the crowded cafeteria as Spock and Dr. Stoddard leave.

"Who was that?" Gaila asks, sidling up to Nyota as she walks to the salad line.

""You're up early," Nyota says, nudging Gaila with her shoulder. "It's only noon."

"Answer the question," Gaila says, reaching past Nyota and picking up a cherry tomato from the bowl on the counter. "Who was that with Commander Spock? I've never seen her before."

"The new humanities professor," Nyota says. "Dr. Stoddard."

"Humanities?" Gaila says, wrinkling her nose. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," Nyota says, picking up the salad tongs and scissoring some lettuce onto her tray. "Professor Artura told me that he met her yesterday, and I read an article in the faculty newsletter about her. Why do you ask?"

"Dunno," Gaila says, leading the way to a table near the window. "Except that I've never heard of a Vulcan teaching anything but science or math."

"Yeah, me neither," Nyota says, frowning. She follows Gaila and sets her tray down on the table before pulling out the chair and settling herself.

"What's wrong?"

Gaila reaches across the table and taps Nyota on the arm. Nyota gives a start and picks up her fork.

She's never been upfront about her relationship with Spock with anyone, not even Gaila—in the beginning because it was too confusing, and now because they have too much to lose.

Yet Gaila suspects they are more than teacher and aide—or at least Nyota assumes she does. The grins, the looks, the offhand comments about spending so much time in the language lab—

"Nothing's wrong," Nyota says slowly. "It's just—I wonder why the dean assigned her orientation to Spock?"

"Racism," Gaila says breezily, "or whatever you want to call it. She's a Vulcan—he's a Vulcan. The dean figures they belong together."

Spearing her last cherry tomato, Gaila adds waggishly, "And you have to admit, with those ears, they do make a nice couple."

**A/N: And we're off! **

**Gaila's flip comment about "racism" isn't meant to offend anyone; some of my other fics bring up the idea, too, though in the way people in the 23rd reboot universe talk about it (remember Sarek's comment to young Spock that "Emotions run deep within our race...in many ways, more deeply than in humans.") Race equals species in this fictional world, though the prejudice cultivated around it seems the same as in the real one, or at least, Spock suffers from both overt prejudice (the school bullies calling his mother a "whore") and the more pernicious soft bigotry of low expectations (the VSA minister's astonishment at Spock's success despite the "disadvantage" of a human mother.) Given Vulcan prejudice and human assumptions, the dean might be forgiven for assuming that Dr. Stoddard would prefer a Vulcan companion.**

**In my little corner of the Star Trek universe, this story comes after "The Word You Mean," when Spock and Nyota have finally taken that last forbidden step and become lovers. It and other S/U stories are listed in chronological order in my profile, if you are interested in reading more.  
**

**Thanks to StarTrekFanWriter for her feedback!**


	2. Fever

**Chapter Two: Fever**

**Disclaimer: This is my playground, but I don't own it or the equipment.**

"You startled me!"

Nyota grips the armrest of the chair where she has been hunched over a computer console for the past hour. Standing in the doorway of the lab, Spock raises his eyebrows and says, "I apologize. That was not my intention."

"You're like a cat," Nyota says, grinning and stretching her arms over her head.

"As I like cats, I shall take that as a compliment," Spock says, stepping into the room. He looks over Nyota's shoulder as she begins the shut down sequence on her console. When he had seen her earlier at the cafeteria, she seemed oddly out of sorts. He is relieved that she is smiling now.

The three banked rows of computers have already been turned off and the front desk tidied up in the lab—apparently the last student left some time ago.

"Why are you here?" he asks Nyota as she picks up her backpack. She doesn't pause but Spock has the sense that something in his question upsets her. Her smile is replaced by a look that isn't quite anger and is more than simple curiosity.

Is she annoyed that he is questioning her use of the lab? He never has commented before on her personal use of the lab computer—even though she sometimes opens the lab early or stays late to finish her own schoolwork. Perhaps his comment now is simply unexpected and she is merely surprised.

When he is tired he has more trouble reading expressions—and he is very tired right now.

"I was waiting on you," she says. "You've been gone most of the day."

She palms off the light as she exits the lab, the staccato of her boots on the linoleum floor especially loud. Is her tread heavier than normal? He compares the decibel level of her footsteps now with what he estimates to be her average sound. Interesting. She is deliberately walking more forcefully.

Suddenly she stops in her tracks and swivels back to where he is following her down the hall.

"I'm sorry," she says, looking up at him. "I'm—behaving badly. I…was just worried about you."

The hallway is empty—the break room lights across the hall are off—but Spock glances around before speaking.

"I am uncertain why—"

"You look tired," she interrupts. "Want to get some supper? My treat."

Once when he was a young teenager on Vulcan, Spock had been hiking in the hills near his parents' home when a fierce windstorm swept up suddenly—the hot, dry sand blowing so hard that the individual grains had dug and scoured his skin, forcing him into a crouch among the rocks. As the wind howled, he had a moment of panic as he felt the sand drifting around him, covering his arms and legs and creeping up in eddies until his shoulders were bowed down by the weight of the sand.

And still the storm raged, the hot dry air turning suddenly into a rare cloud burst, the water trickling into his matted hair and down his back. He gasped for air and tried in vain to free his arms from the mass of sand pinning him down—and then just as suddenly, the rain and wind stopped, the atmosphere dead and hot again as if nothing had happened.

When he managed to claw his way out of the sand at last and make his way home, his mother gasped at his bedraggled appearance.

"What happened to you!" she cried out, and he told her honestly, "I do not know."

That same sense of being caught in a whirlpool of sand and wind catches him from time to time when he is pulled into the undertow of a baffling conversation. From experience he knows that his best defense is to quiet himself and wait for things to settle.

He realizes that Nyota is watching him closely. Supper? He is so tired. Supper might be beneficial.

"Yes," he tells her, struggling not to sigh, "I would enjoy your company at supper."

And there—the sun comes back out. She lets out a puff of air and smiles. It is very confusing.

X X X X X X X X X

Usually Spock keeps his cooler well-stocked with vegetables and grains for quick stir fries, but Nyota finds only a carton of yogurt and some raspberries in a small bowl.

"This will have to do," she says, walking to the door of the kitchen and holding them up for Spock's inspection. At her insistence he is stretched out on the sofa, head propped against the armrest.

"I did not have time to stop at the market today," he says, and Nyota is certain that she hears a note of weariness in his voice.

"Why not?" she says, setting the food on the side table and handing him a spoon. "Where were you all day?"

"With Dr. Stoddard," Spock says, eyeing the spoon and then setting it on the table beside the bowl of raspberries.

"All day?"

Nyota doesn't try to hide her surprise. Spock has no classes on Tuesdays, but he keeps office hours and spends time working with students in the lab. Today he had missed both.

"Dr. Stoddard required my attention," he says, sitting up on the sofa. The effort seems to tire him—he closes his eyes briefly.

"Are you okay?" Nyota asks, moving to the sofa and reaching up to brush her fingers across his forehead. "You look like you don't feel well."

He is, in fact, hotter than normal. She pulls her hand away and peers at him closely.

"Maybe you should try to eat something," Nyota says, and Spock shakes his head a fraction. "Or maybe you should go to the infirmary. You might be coming down with something."

Her comment evokes what she expects—as close to a look of exasperation as Spock can give.

"I am not _coming down with something_," he says, sitting up straighter. "I am simply recovering from a difficult day."

Something in his tone alarms her, and Nyota tucks her legs under her and scoots closer.

"Why? What was so difficult? I thought you said you were playing tour guide all day."

"I am now behind in my own work—" he says, and Nyota makes a dismissive sound. Please. Spock works faster and more efficiently than anyone she knows. He can make up any missed time without much trouble. Something else must be up.

Nyota waits for a moment but Spock offers nothing else by way of explanation. She meets his eye and says, "And? Dr. Stoddard? Was she difficult?"

"I would not call T'Sera difficult—but she does require a great deal of attention."

Nyota blinks. "T'Sera? I thought her name was Sarah…Sarah Stoddard."

Taking a breath, Spock says, "She goes by T'Sera when she is on Vulcan. That's the name I first knew her by."

"Wait," Nyota says, "I'm confused. You know Dr. Stoddard?"

Spock does not answer but leans his head back against the sofa. This exhaustion is so uncharacteristic of him that Nyota reaches again to touch his head.

At her touch he opens his eyes and takes her hand in his own.

"T'Sera's parents were desert biologists doing research on Earth when she was born," he says. Through his hand Nyota feels his attention lift and his energy rise a bit. "They were killed in a hovercraft accident. A human couple adopted her and raised her—but she spent many summers on Vulcan with her maternal grandmother."

"And that's where you met her?"

"Four years ago at my parents' house," Spock says, reaching to the side table and picking up the spoon and bowl of raspberries. "Some sort of soiree—my mother's idea," he says. "We have stayed in touch."

"Well!" Nyota says, nonplussed. So much of Spock's life is a mystery to her—she shouldn't feel surprised. As teacher and student—and then as professor and aide—they have spent countless hours _talking shop_—with occasional incursions into each other's private lives. Moments like this are reminders that they are still very new at this relationship—that they are getting to know each other in fundamental ways.

She shifts on the sofa uncomfortably.

Spock eats several raspberries and returns the bowl and spoon to the table. If she was hungry before, Nyota is too unsettled to want to eat now. Why does Spock's revelation that he knows Dr. Stoddard make her uncomfortable? _I'm not some stupid jealous school girl,_ Nyota thinks, but even as she does, she knows that she is feeling threatened at some level.

And why not? Dr. Stoddard is brilliant—accomplished, beautiful, and…Vulcan. There. Nyota has to admit that Gaila's offhand joke that _they make a nice couple _upset her.

"You look like you need some rest," she says, noticing the sweat beading up on Spock's upper lip. "Do you want me to go?"

"Yes," he says immediately, and while Nyota knows that she shouldn't take his words to mean anything other than what they appear to mean, she is stung. Stifling a sigh, she stands up and says, "Okay, but call me if you need me. I can help you get to the infirmary—"

That exasperated look again—and Spock says, "You will be across campus. Should I need that sort of assistance, the logical solution would be to ask T'Sera. She lives on the second floor."

To her horror, Nyota feels herself flush, and she turns quickly so Spock will not notice.

"She's here? In this apartment building?"

He rises from the sofa and follows her to the door. As she reaches for the doorknob, she feels the electric prickle of Spock's fingers on her cheek. She turns and offers a chaste kiss—and is once again shocked at how hot he feels. He must be running a fever.

"It _is_ the faculty housing," Spock says. "But I have no intention of going to the infirmary."

**A/N: Can you guess where this is heading? **

**Stay tuned...  
**

**Thanks to StarTrekFanWriter for her suggestions! Check out her new story, "The Good Father," in my faves.  
**


	3. The Big Chill

**Chapter Three: The Big Chill**

**Disclaimer: I do not profit from writing about these characters—unless you count readers' reviews as payment (and I do!)**

Even with the temperature control dialed as high as it will go in the apartment, T'Sera is uncomfortably cold. And damp. How does Spock stand this climate? He's lived in San Francisco how long?

Six years, ten months, and twelve days—if her reckoning is accurate.

She is more certain of other numbers.

Four years, two months, and three days since they met at the evening gathering at Ambassador Sarek's home—the striking young lieutenant wearing his dress uniform, an unconscious—or perhaps intentional—contrast to the rest of the guests that night.

Four years, two months, and _two_ days since she had spent an entire morning reading all the public records she could on Sarek and Amanda's son and gently badgering her grandmother, a professor at the Vulcan Science Academy. _Why had Spock turned down his appointment there? Were his abilities in question? Was he emotionally unstable? Unsuitable?_

"_He is not for you_," her grandmother had said, dodging the rest of her questions.

Four years, two months, and _one_ day since she had discovered that S'chn T'gai Spock and K'Loh'r T'Mir T'Pring were bonded as seven-year olds—a tiny notice in the media archives giving an understated account of the traditional Vulcan ceremony.

She remembers being surprised—and disappointed. And something more—angry that her own upbringing makes her an outsider. She has never doubted that her human parents love her—that they honor her Vulcan heritage and have tried to raise her with Vulcan values and sensibilities—but when she is with other Vulcans, her oddities show.

Her tendency to use human metaphors, for instance, or her occasional off-putting facial expressions. Her lack of a bondmate—and her parents' ongoing argument with her grandmother about what they insist should be her choice.

Humans, on the other hand, notice different oddities—her placid temperament that gets her labeled "indifferent" or "cold-blooded," her self-assurance under pressure that even her friends interpret as arrogance.

She wasn't bullied as a school child, but she was ignored—and when she met Spock at his parents' home, she felt that she had at last found someone who understood what it meant to straddle two completely different worlds—neither human nor Vulcan by anyone's measure.

Pulling a blanket from an unpacked box, T'Sera wraps herself in it and settles on the thin futon she uses as a bed. This is going to be harder than she had anticipated. Seeing Spock again—spending the day together—has left her uncharacteristically restless.

She picks up a handheld subspace transceiver from the floor beside the futon and flicks it on. Static erupts from the small speaker and T'Sera adjusts the controls, thumbing through a series of screens until she finds the one preset for her contact in the _Tal Shiar_, the Romulan secret police.

"_Jolan tru_," she says when the face of Revnak appears on the monitor.

"You are late, Sub-Commander," Revnak says without preamble. "Our agent reported your arrival two days ago."

T'Sera pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

"I was unable to activate this unit until now," T'Sera says, letting the annoyance in her voice show. She sees Revnak react with a blink. Good. He will not be so impolite in the future. "I am under constant surveillance here," she adds. "Communication will be difficult. At this time I cannot set up a precise schedule."

Across the distance, T'Sera sees Revnak's disapproval—but he says nothing.

"Unless it is urgent, wait for me to contact you," T'Sera says. She presses the button to deactivate the unit and slides it behind the futon.

2215—the student cafeteria is long closed. She considers visiting the nearby deli Spock had pointed out earlier in the afternoon, but the thought of going out into the wet night air makes her hesitate. For a moment she thinks about walking downstairs and checking on Spock—he's probably feeling pretty lousy by now.

But she doesn't want to see him when he's sick.

Especially since she knows she's the cause.

X X X X X X X X X

"I'm starving!" Nyota says, and Gaila flashes her a look of annoyance.

"In a minute," the Orion says. "I thought you and the Professor were having supper—I wasn't expecting you."

Nyota leans forward and watches as Gaila's fingers flash over the main console in the sensor array lab. From time to time Nyota fills in for one of Gaila's shifts—the sensor lab is both more interesting and more boring than the language lab. More interesting, because unexpected exotic signals can arc across the monitors at any time. More boring because they usually don't—and most of the time, the cadets sitting at the consoles struggle to stay alert.

"He was too tired," Nyota says, tapping her finger on one of the indicators. "Look, Gaila. What's that?"

Gaila looks where Nyota is pointing.

"It's been glitchy all night," she says. "Someone's spending lots of credits on a faulty transmitter."

"But these coordinates—" Nyota says, and Gaila nods.

"That's what I mean. Who would focus a signal across the Neutral Zone? Know anybody on Romulus you want to talk to? Me neither."

Gaila taps the screen once more and the signal fades.

"See? Nothing."

"Well—" Nyota says reluctantly.

"Hey, Josh!" Gaila calls across the lab to another student. "Can you cover for me? I want to get something to eat."

"You've only been here an hour," Josh says, irritation in his voice. Flashing Nyota a grin, Gaila twitches across the room and kneels down beside Josh's chair, murmuring softly. In a moment she bounds back across the room.

"Hurry," she says, _sotto voce_, "before he changes his mind."

"You're terrible," Nyota says, stifling a laugh as she and Gaila rush down the stairwell and exit the building.

"Me?" Gaila says with mock seriousness. "I gave him a chance to be a nice guy and do me a favor. He feels pretty good about himself right now. What's terrible about that?"

"Damn!"

"What?"

"It's closed." Nyota points down the sidewalk to the darkened cafeteria. "I didn't realize it's so late."

"So much for supper," Gaila says, turning back toward the sensor array building.

"The deli," Nyota says, grabbing Gaila's arm. "The one near the faculty housing. It stays open all night."

From the corner of her eye, Nyota sees Gaila giving her an odd look.

"How do you know? No, don't tell me."

In spite of herself, Nyota laughs. Gaila looks amused—mischievous—in the streetlamp, and Nyota impulsively links her arm through her elbow and pulls her forward.

"It's cold out here!" she says, and Gaila giggles. They pelt down the paved walkway that snakes its way around the edge of the quad, their breath visible when they finally stop at the Academy gate and wait for the traffic light to turn.

The deli is more urban market than genuine deli. Small and dark, it stays open 24 hours. Often Spock and Nyota sit at one of the few tables in the back, sipping Vulcan fruit drinks or catching a quick bite during the day.

Tonight it is deserted except for a young man Nyota has never seen manning the register near the door. He nods when she and Gaila enter.

"Over here," Nyota says, leading the way to the refrigerated cooler. "The wraps are okay."

Leaning forward and holding open the cooler, Nyota is turned toward the front door when she hears the bell mounted there tinkle. She looks up just as Dr. Stoddard walks in.

The adjunct professor stands in the doorway for a moment before letting the door shut behind her. Nodding at Nyota, she walks down the aisle slowly.

"Cadet Uhura," she says when she reaches the cooler.

"Dr. Stoddard! Did you get settled in? Commander Spock told me that, uh, you were moving into the faculty housing."

Inwardly she winces—perhaps that sort of information is considered too private to share with others and Dr. Stoddard will take offense. But the tall Vulcan woman doesn't seem to mind—or at least, to Nyota she seems unfazed.

"Thank you, yes. You have seen Commander Spock this evening?"

A patter almost too soft to hear behind her—Nyota knows that Gaila has walked up. She whips her head back quickly and sees Gaila standing there, an odd expression on her face.

"Oh, Professor, this is my roommate, Gaila Farlijah-Endef. Gaila, this is Dr. Stoddard."

Suddenly feeling awkward, Nyota scrambles to think what to say. She is chary about letting anyone know that she visits Spock's apartment. Even if her visits were innocent, appearances to the contrary could draw a rebuke.

On the other hand, she can let Dr. Stoddard know that Spock is unwell without revealing exactly how she knows. She hesitates for a moment more and then decides to take a chance.

"Actually, Dr. Stoddard, I'm glad you asked," Nyota says. Gaila moves so closely that Nyota can feel the heat from her arm on her own. "He came by the lab late this afternoon…he said he was tired, but…he looked sick."

Something changes in Dr. Stoddard's expression—some slight shift in her upswept brows, a faint flush along her neck.

"I'm…a little bit worried," Nyota adds. Even to herself she sounds simpering and inappropriate. _Shut up_, she wills herself.

"Then perhaps I should check on him," Dr. Stoddard says, replacing the carton she had picked up from the cooler. "Thank you for your concern."

Without another word she walks back down the aisle and leaves the deli, the bell over the door tinkling as she does.

"Well," Gaila says, "if a gorgeous Vulcan can't make him feel better, I don't know who can."

Rounding on her heel, Nyota turns so swiftly that Gaila jumps back in surprise.

"It was a joke!" Gaila says, throwing her hands up in the air, but Nyota is already on her way out the door.

**A/N: Romulans? Horrors! Now what's going on!**

**In my series of S/U fics, Spock has known Nyota about a year but has been intimate with her only a few weeks at this point...she's nearing the end of her second year at the Academy in this story.  
**

**Thanks to StarTrekFanWriter for reading and reviewing. Check out her new story, "The Good Father," in my faves.**


	4. Personal History

**Chapter Four: Personal History**

**Disclaimer: I am a spy here, not someone making money.**

T'Sera's finger hovers over the door chime. She's already pressed it twice—and she hears no sounds from inside Spock's apartment. Even if he were asleep, he would have been roused by now.

Feeling the first tendrils of real alarm, she pulls her comm from her pocket and flips it open. With a few quick touches on the keypad, she resets the electronic signature and holds the unit up to the door lock. When she activates the comm, it sends out an infrared signal that demagnetizes the lock, swinging the door open.

"Spock?" she calls as she shuts the door behind her and looks around the shadowed living area. "Are you here?"

Except for an appliance light in the kitchen, the apartment is completely dark. T'Sera reaches behind her and feels the wall for the light pad, palming it on. Instantly the room springs into view—a sofa and chair cattycorner to each other, a small table beside them.

Idly, T'Sera notes the carton of yogurt and bowl of fruit on the table—opened and uneaten. A cushion on the floor near the sofa looks oddly out of place in the otherwise neat room. T'Sera feels her heartbeat quicken.

To her right is a long hallway. Pausing for a moment, she listens—silence—and calls again, "Spock!" Nothing. She walks to the end of the hall and feels her way into the bedroom.

She slides her hand along the wall but does not feel a light pad.

"Lights," she says, and a lamp beside the bed flickers on. What she sees makes her take a sharp breath.

Spock is nude, lying on his side on the bed, his back to her. The duvet and sheets—the pillows and Spock's nightclothes—are twisted and scattered around the bed on the floor.

In the dim lamplight, Spock's color is weirdly luminescent—though when T'Sera moves closer, she sees that the sheen is from sweat. She reaches forward and brushes aside his hair—matted and soggy—from his brow.

"I am so sorry," T'Sera whispers, sitting down on the bed. She feels Spock shivering and she pulls a sheet from the floor and drags it over his legs and torso. Bending toward him, T'Sera says, "Spock, can you hear me? Spock!"

She brushes her hand across his brow again.

"Spock!"

He turns his head a fraction and opens his eyes for a moment, closing them almost immediately.

"Nyota?"

"Spock, it's T'Sera. Can you hear me?"

Her hand still rests on his brow and she is startled to feel his shields flutter—and a jumble of images flash by. She jerks her hand back—an intrusion into his mind now would be a violation of his privacy—though she may have no other choice if she is going to reach him.

Tentatively she touches his face—his eyes still closed, his brows knit as if he is in pain—and she is careful to skirt past the images that flit in his consciousness.

_Nyota_, she hears him call out again.

_Come with me_, she says, and she feels his attention turn toward her, reluctantly, as she pulls him back into his memories. _Your parents' house, remember?_ She leads him to the stone patio behind the kitchen and feels his breath coming easier in the desert air.

_Good_, she says. _You are home_.

T'Sera feels herself both sitting on Spock's bed and standing beside him on the patio. Where her mind touches his, she sees him as he was the first time that they met—and she reaches out to the sleeve of his uniform as they stand chatting together, placing her hand on his arm—something she had wanted to do that day but had not dared.

She marvels that she can press her way forth in his memories, seeing herself there, not just as she really was, but as she wishes she had been.

Sadness wells up within her, and she looks into Spock's eyes as Eridani sets over the mountains behind his parents' house. _I am sorry_, she says, but he does not seem to hear her—perhaps memories cannot be altered so much after all. That first evening had not been sad or regrettable—indeed, his memory of it matches her own….and she feels her heart jump when she realizes how he, too, had felt them to be kindred spirits that night.

Another memory, then, one that will allow her to speak of sadness and apologies.

She tugs him away from the evening dinner party and shows him another place, her grandmother's summer house. On rare occasions when they were on Vulcan at the same time, they would gather there, sitting side by side on the divan in the greenhouse, looking over T'Sera's latest research printouts, sharing a cup of tea, talking of life beyond this world.

Always when they saw each other again, T'Sera felt a rush of happiness and interest—and underneath it, an awkwardness born of what she could not deny, her real sexual attraction to him and her awareness that she must never reveal it. He was bonded and his future set. She was free to make her own choice but was unable to. The irony was not lost on her.

Her grandmother's summer house became their unofficial meeting place, and then, one night, something more.

Three years, seven months, and nineteen days ago—she casts about for that memory in Spock's mind and finds it easily. She slips into it and sees him there, standing at the door of her grandmother's house, a decorative potted cactus in his hand, a gift from Earth.

"I hoped to see you while I am home on leave," he says, setting the cactus on the table. "I know your fondness for Terran desert plants."

"It must have cost you quite a few credits to transport it," she says, but she hopes he hears what she is really saying—_This gift means that you care_.

And then she does something that proves that her human upbringing can be more powerful than her Vulcan heritage—she steps so closely to Spock that she feels the waves of heat rolling from his body. For an eternity they stand there—both startled by her boldness—until she lifts her hand and touches his fingers.

A spark snaps through her core and she gasps. She has had several human sexual partners—indeed, even a few relationships she would call _boyfriends_—but she has never felt the emotional attachment for any of them that she feels for Spock. How curious that the purely physical aspects of sexuality are not sufficient. Why had she not thought of this before?

Spock's breath is hot and close and she considers what to do next. Her human partners had preferred oral stimulation—perhaps he shares this with other humans? She gently tips her head up and opens her lips, lightly brushing them across his own. He turns away slightly—startled, perhaps, or uneasy—and T'Sera castigates herself. What is she doing? _He is not for you_, she hears her grandmother saying long ago.

"I…I apologize," she says, looking down, her face flushing. On one hand she has done nothing to apologize for. Unmarried Vulcans—bonded or not—can and sometimes do engage in sexual unions with others—though the practice is frowned on. Sexuality is, after all, a normal biological function—though centuries of tradition and ceremony tend to freight it with more importance.

What she apologizes for is not the kiss—or even for revealing her own feelings—but for making Spock uncomfortable…and for jeopardizing their earlier easy friendship.

The silence stretches on and she dares to look up at him. His face is unreadable—his eyes hooded and dark. T'Sera starts to take a step backward and she feels his hands grip her upper arms, stopping her.

Her heart hammers in her side.

"Do not apologize," he says so softly that she has to strain to hear him. And then he lets go of her arms and pulls her into an embrace. They kiss again—awkwardly, like people forced to communicate in a foreign language. When she pulls away, T'Sera notes the amusement in Spock's expression, and they lean into each other, their fingers drifting to their psi points, their foreheads touching.

Without speaking aloud, they make their way to the guest bedroom in the back of the summer house, their hands intertwined. A simple futon is rolled against the wall and T'Sera lets go of Spock's hand to spread it out. For a moment she is disoriented—losing contact is a loneliness she can hardly bear—and she reaches back toward him. He takes her hand and together they lie down next to each other fully clothed.

A lock of hair has slipped over her face and Spock brushes it back behind her ear. She shivers—and sees that earlier look of amusement on his face.

Her hand drifts to his cheek as he encircles her waist with his arm, tugging her closer.

_Does she want more?_ She poses the question and sets it adrift. Of course she does—but should she _do_ more? That is a different question.

At first they are careful with each other, their thoughts darting on the horizon like fireflies, just out of reach. But as their arousal grows, they let go—delighting in snippets of memory and ideas, showing each other scenes from their lives. As their bodies strain toward each other, their minds offer a deeper touch—and T'Sera feels a wash of contentment that almost overwhelms her.

This mental connection is what she has never let herself feel with the humans in her past—_a prejudice or a choice_, she wonders, and she feels Spock's curiosity about her question.

From him she feels interest and friendship—and an anticipation of pleasurable release.

But she also senses something else—his untouchable solitude—his belief in his aloneness. Indeed, it is part of how he defines herself, and with a start, T'Sera realizes that despite his humanity, he is less comfortable with his feelings than she is, and probably always will be.

No one reaches him at the center of who he is…and T'Sera pulls back gradually, wistful, sad for them both—that they cannot be more for each other.

Dimly T'Sera feels herself again on the bed in Spock's apartment—she is getting lost in the memory; she is forgetting why she revisited it.

"I am…sorry," she says aloud, forcing herself to return past the memories of the end of that evening—past the initial excitement and arousal to their growing realization that anything more would carry them beyond a boundary neither was—logically or illogically—willing to cross.

"Spock," she says aloud, again, "you are unwell, but I can help you."

He stirs restlessly on the bed, and T'Sera pulls her hand away from his brow. With a quick motion, she pulls her comm out and flicks it open.

"Something is wrong," she says into the speaker. "He should not be reacting this way."

"The human element?" the voice on the other end surmises, and T'Sera says, "Most likely. I am stopping it. You have me—you do not need him, too."

She closes the comm and pulls out a small medkit from her left pocket. Uncapping a tiny hypodermic needle, she presses it against Spock's neck.

"I am truly sorry," she says, as she pushes the plunger home.

**A/N: Thanks for being so patient with the twists and turns in this road!**

**Thanks, too, to StarTrekFanWriter for reading and making suggestions. Her new fic, "The Good Father," is in my faves.**


	5. The First Lie

**Chapter Five: The First Lie**

**Disclaimer: I did not create this world and most of its inhabitants, though they have become my pals.**

"May I join you?"

Nyota looks up from her meal and sees Dr. Stoddard standing at her side, breakfast tray in hand.

"Please," Nyota says, motioning to the chair across the table. Faculty members often eat in the student cafeteria, though most tend to sit together at the table designated for them near the vidscreen. Most likely Dr. Stoddard doesn't know any of the faculty here this morning, and looking around, saw a familiar face.

At least, that's what Nyota decides. She hopes Dr. Stoddard isn't going to quiz her about Spock or why she and Gaila were in the deli near his apartment.

"Thank you for checking in on Commander Spock last night," Nyota says. Dr. Stoddard nods and picks up a strawberry, lifting it to eye level before taking a bite.

Used to Spock's uber fastidiousness with food, Nyota is fascinated. She watches transfixed as Dr. Stoddard picks up another berry with her fingers and pops it into her mouth.

"Would you like some?" the Vulcan woman asks, and Nyota realizes that she is staring.

"No, it's just that—" How does she tell the adjunct professor that her table manners—flawless by human standards—are shocking in a Vulcan, without sounding insulting or judgmental?

But a flash of understanding crosses Dr. Stoddard's face—and something close to a smile.

"Oh, that," she says, holding up a berry. "When in Rome—"

Ah, yes. Nyota remembers the faculty newsletter article—Dr. Stoddard had grown up on Earth. And Spock said she was raised by humans. Would she mind questions? Nyota takes a sip of coffee and clears her throat.

"Commander Spock is better this morning," she says, and Dr. Stoddard nods as if this is common knowledge. "He canceled his morning class but is going to try to meet his afternoon lecture."

Nodding again, Dr. Stoddard appears unsurprised.

"I fear that I may be responsible," the Vulcan woman says, glancing down at her plate. "Two weeks ago I had a bout of Somorian flu. I thought I was no longer contagious, but apparently I am—or was. It only affects Vulcans—humans are immune. Usually it is fairly mild and leaves no lasting effects. Spock is right—he should be able to meet his afternoon responsibilities."

"Well, that's a relief," Nyota says, but even as she does, she watches Dr. Stoddard's expression. Something is off—her tone of voice doesn't match her words, and she sounds hesitant, as if she is hiding something. If she weren't a Vulcan, Nyota would assume she is lying.

Deciding to draw the professor into a longer conversation, Nyota says, "Commander Spock told me that your parents were biologists."

"My birth parents, yes," Dr. Stoddard says quickly. "But they died when I was an infant. They were doing research at the Biological Institute in Phoenix when they were killed. Their best friends were a married couple working as engineers at the Institute. They petitioned to be allowed to adopt me—and as my grandmother was unable to take care of an infant at that time, the Stoddards became my parents."

Her voice is calm and matter-of-fact. Clearly she has told this story many times before. But her earlier dodge makes Nyota suspicious of everything she says now, and she presses her for more information.

"What was that like? Growing up with human parents? I mean, if you don't mind my asking you," Nyota says quickly.

Dr. Stoddard's lip quirks up.

"You have human parents of your own, don't you, Cadet? I suspect our experiences were similar."

Nyota gives a short laugh and says, "I mean, were you raised as a Vulcan? Or as a human? Did you ever find it hard—"

"To know where I stood?"

Nyota nods. Despite herself, she feels a rush of sympathy for the Vulcan woman. When she and Spock brush each other's minds, the first thing she encounters every time is the schism he feels between his Vulcan and human selves. Does Dr. Stoddard struggle with the same tension?

"We all have competing loyalties, I suspect," Dr. Stoddard says, her gaze unfocused, her voice distant. And then suddenly she snaps back to attention and adds, "Are you always so serious this early in the morning, Cadet?"

"Not always," Nyota says, picking up her tray and scooting back her chair. "Just when I really want to know something."

X X X X X X X X

"You look terrible!"

Nyota jumps up from the chair behind the computer console in the language lab and moves swiftly to where Spock is standing just inside the door. He is leaning on the door frame, his face a pasty sallow color, his uniform hitched oddly around his shoulders, as if he has lost weight.

"The word you mean is _recuperative_," he says softly, slowly, and Nyota huffs.

"There is no such word!"

Spock says nothing but his eyebrow shoots up.

"Okay, there might be," Nyota says, "but it is _not_ the word I mean. I mean _terrible_."

No one else is in the lab at the moment and Spock sags forward slightly. Reaching up with her hand, Nyota grabs his shoulder and shepherds him to a nearby chair.

"Why don't you cancel your afternoon lecture?" she asks, _tsking_ and fussing over him as he sits slowly. He says nothing but darts her a look.

"I already canceled one class today," he says. "I have no wish to make this a habit."

"You're sick! You need to rest!"

"I am _recuperative_," he says, glancing up. "My class does not meet for two hours. By then my energy level should be much improved."

When he sets his mind to something, Spock is surprisingly stubborn, and Nyota knows better than to waste her time arguing with him. Instead, she casts about for what she can do to help—lunch, certainly, and perhaps some tea. She can get him to the break room—or better yet, to his office—and insist that he sit back quietly until time to meet his students.

She details the possibilities to him and to her astonishment he agrees. A quiet lunch at his desk in his office might be just what he needs—and a cup of tea, and her company. She looks up and smiles when he asks her if she can sit with him while he eats.

"Of course," she says. "I'm just relieved that you didn't have anything more serious. Not that the Somorian flu isn't a nasty bug—but Dr. Stoddard said it doesn't usually last long."

Spock tilts his head and stands up gingerly.

"The Somorian flu? I didn't have the Somorian flu."

Spock takes a step out of the lab and Nyota scurries to follow him. Twice as they walk down the hallway toward his office, he pauses for a moment and she almost reaches out a hand to steady him. At last they enter his office and he sinks into the chair behind his desk.

"You did have the Somorian flu," Nyota says, picking up his tea mug and checking to see if it is empty. "You caught it from Dr. Stoddard—that day you had to show her around campus."

She bustles about the office, gathering up a new box of tea Spock's mother has sent from home. Before she leaves to get water in the break room, she places her hand down on the desk and gives a mock serious look.

"But that begs the question of how," she says. "Do you catch it from touch? Or from water droplets in the air? Or something more intimate?"

Her voice is playful, but part of her—the embarrassingly jealous part that she hides even from herself—is genuinely worried.

"I did not catch it at all," Spock says. "I had the Somorian flu when I was a child, and contagion confers lifelong immunity. Dr. Stoddard is incorrect in her diagnosis."

"Oh!" Nyota says. She thought something was strange about Dr. Stoddard's conversation earlier this morning. Was the adjunct professor actually lying? Or did she sound odd because she was jumping to a conclusion—something Vulcans do with great caution.

She'll have to think about that later—after she makes Spock some tea.

**A/N: ****Thanks for sticking with a story that has taken some left turns! A few more ahead...  
**

**Thanks, also, to StarTrekFanWriter for reading and making suggestions. Check out her newest story, "The Good Father," in my faves.**


	6. Sensor

**Chapter Six: Sensor**

**Disclaimer: People much smarter than I am created these guys—I just move them around.**

"I'm ready!"

Nyota plops her backpack on the floor beside the chair where Gaila is hunched over a computer console. As usual, the night shift in the sensor array lab is staffed by a skeleton crew—besides Gaila, only one other cadet is working.

"Hold on," Gaila says, not looking up. "Yep," she calls across the room, "it's still there."

The other cadet—a short, dark woman with long dreadlocks pulled back from her face—says, "Got it. Go ahead and shut it down. Maintenance is on the way."

"What's going on?" Nyota asks, but Gaila ignores her, fluttering her fingers over the console and powering down the various indicators. "Don't you need me to fill in for you tonight? That's why I'm here," Nyota says.

When the console closes down at last, Gaila looks up.

"I don't need you after all," she says. "The long-range scanner is still being glitchy—we keep getting those anomalous readings aimed across the Neutral Zone. The maintenance crew is going to disassemble the main array tonight and see what the heck is going on."

Gaila leans over, picks Nyota's backpack from the floor, and hands it to her.

"So, girlfriend, we are free for the rest of the evening! Let's go celebrate!"

"Oh, no," Nyota says. "I planned to get some studying done tonight. I can't go partying with you."

She hitches her backpack on her shoulder and starts toward the door of the lab. Waving at the other cadet, Gaila follows her.

"Okay, okay," Gaila says quickly as they head down the stairwell, "what about getting a bite to eat instead? Please?"

Gaila leans into Nyota and grabs her arm, looking up with what Nyota calls _puppy dog eyes_, a dramatic affectation Gaila uses with particular skill against human males.

"Don't even try that with me," Nyota says, laughing. "I've already eaten. I'm just going back to the dorm to study."

She reaches out and pushes the glass doors open, exiting the building into the moist evening air.

"You can't!" Gaila whines. "A gift of time and you want to waste it. Listen, you tell me what you want to do—other than study—and that's what we will do! Anything! A trip into town? The rec center? Come on, Ny, let's do something."

Despite her reservations, Nyota feels herself being buoyed by Gaila's enthusiasm. The test she is studying for isn't until next week—and cultural linguistics is a subject she feels competent and confident about.

"Well," she says, and Gaila giggles and squeezes her arm. "We could stop by the amphitheater and catch some of the concert."

Immediately Gaila deflates, a balloon with the air escaping.

"No, Ny, not a concert, please? You know I hate that stuff you listen to—"

"Fine. I'm heading back to the dorm then."

Swiveling on her heel, Nyota takes a brisk step across the quad.

"Stop!" Gaila calls, just as Nyota knew she would. Extroverted in the extreme, Gaila despises being alone—a trait that more than once has gotten her into some sticky situations. Left to her own devices, she can get into trouble when she's at such loose ends—

"How about a compromise," Nyota says. "Let's stay for half an hour, and if you don't like it, we will leave and see if we can find enough people at the rec center for a game of parrises squares."

X X X X X X X

The outdoor amphitheater is almost always in use. In addition to the usual choral and dramatic groups, professors often schedule outdoor classes there, and civic clubs like to hold their meetings in the open-air arena.

Overlooking the Pacific, the amphitheater slopes gently, the seats integrated into the landscape in such a way that each audience member can see and hear the stage equally well. Deciduous trees ring the sides and provide a shady canopy in the summer.

Although Professor Artura sometimes brings his advanced language class here for student presentations, Spock has never opted to. The venue is aesthetically pleasing, but the vagaries of wind and weather make planning the logistics of a lecture imprecise. Better to meet in the regular lecture hall in the language building where the acoustics and temperature are controlled.

Spock has had this conversation more than once with Nyota, who from time to time petitions him to _loosen up_ and try something new. Choosing something likely to fail is not wise, he usually says—and that ends the discussion. For a time.

He understands the appeal, however—particularly on a night like this one, when the sky is clear, the stars are visible, and the breeze from the bay is mild. If the amphitheater were empty now instead of filled with musicians tuning up and a crowd milling in the aisles, Spock would find this place quite inducive to deep meditation.

As it is, he is slightly on edge. A week after his fevered night, he still tires easily and has trouble staying focused for long stretches of time. Nyota has worked late most nights helping him catch up with his grading and organizing his upcoming lectures—but tonight she is working in the sensor array lab, and he planned on a light meal and some extra meditation before turning in early.

That is, until T'Sera came by his office, insisting that she needed to talk to him.

"I realize that you may have other plans," she said, "but if it does not inconvenience you unduly, I need your advice."

He isn't certain, but she had seemed _stressed_, or _tense_—and she had expressed a need for help. To deny her would be illogical. Stifling a sigh, he agreed.

To his surprise, she suggested the musical concert as the place to talk. When they arrive at the amphitheater, he can see why. The size of the amphitheater is deceptive, and as many seats are empty as are filled. T'Sera leads the way to an empty row near the back.

"I do not know how much time I shall have," she says as soon as they are seated, and Spock opens his mouth to protest. She must sense his exhaustion—and he wants to reassure her that he is capable of sitting and listening as long as she requires.

But she rushes on.

"Are you content here?"

For a moment Spock thinks that T'Sera is referring to the seats, but she is looking at him so intensely that he discards that idea.

"Here? At the Academy?"

By the dim lights strung in the trees overhead, Spock sees T'Sera nod.

"Why do you wish to know?"

T'Sera looks down at her hands, clasped in her lap.

"I…need to tell you something," she says, haltingly. "But first I need to know—are you content here?"

Is he? He rarely asks himself that question—at least not that way. Many of his students are capable and interesting—though some are less so. The few colleagues that he has known the longest are agreeable company when he sees them at faculty meetings or serves with them on committees. When his schedule allows, he is able to do research that contributes to his fields of interest.

And he has Nyota.

He stumbles over that thought, pulls out that idea and examines it like a jewel he keeps hidden.

He has Nyota.

Vaguely he is surprised at how possessive he sounds—not _he and Nyota have each other_, but _he has Nyota_.

He shouldn't have her, but he does. Doesn't he?

Is he content?

As much as he ever has been.

The last trip to Vulcan had given him a measure of contentment he hadn't known he could feel. He hadn't gone there intending to annul his bond with T'Pring, but when her willingness to do so became clear, he was relieved. The healer who officiated had warned him that he might be disoriented afterwards—but instead he had felt an almost physical release, the way his head sometimes feels light after a rare headache finally evaporates.

"In a manner of speaking," he says, and T'Sera nods again.

"And you wish to stay here?"

"T'Sera, perhaps you should explain the reason for these inquiries."

He hears her sigh—a human habit he had not noticed in her before—and she says, "Have you considered that you are wasting your talents here? Not just at the Academy, but in Starfleet? Even if you accept a commission on a ship someday—"

For a wild moment he wonders if his father has asked T'Sera to speak to him—more than once he and Sarek have had this conversation. But he knows this is a fanciful idea—and he takes a breath and tries to focus on the meaning behind T'Sera's words.

"You are unique, Spock," T'Sera says, "but you have put yourself here, doing work anyone can do. You could be doing so much more."

A gust of wind catches a lock of T'Sera's long auburn hair and fans it across her face. Unbidden, a memory teases at the edge of Spock's consciousness—another time when he had smoothed away a lock of hair. He reaches out and drifts his fingers across her brow, tucking the errant lock behind her ear.

"Each individual is unique," he says, pulling back his hand. "My situation is no different, and my service no less valuable."

"But—" T'Sera says, just as Spock hears footsteps on the grassy slope behind them.

"Commander Spock!" Gaila says, and even Spock can hear the surprise in her tone.

Still sitting, he turns in his seat and sees Gaila standing a few feet away, and behind her, Nyota, her backpack in her hand. Their faces are in shadow, and he stands up, motioning for them to sit.

"Dr. Stoddard," he says, "have you met Cadet Farlijah-Endef?"

Before T'Sera can answer, Gaila says, "Has the concert started yet? We weren't planning to come—but the long range sensor array is being repaired and they kicked us out. Isn't that lucky!"

Something about Gaila's frenetic description is alarming—her breathless way of speaking, perhaps, or the unasked for reason for her appearance here at the concert.

"Yes," Nyota pipes up, "we weren't planning to come. In fact, I ought to be studying, and I would be, if the array weren't broken. But the concert ought to be good. The harpist lives on our hall and I hear her practicing all the time—"

Like Gaila, Nyota's rate of speaking is oddly accelerated and more aspirated. Spock knows that this means something—that she is feeling some strong emotion—but he can't parse out what. Later he will have to ask her, when they are alone.

"The sensor array is broken?" T'Sera says suddenly. "How often does that happen?"

Raising her voice over the beginning strains of a violin solo, Gaila says, "Never! In three years, this is the first time I can remember. It's been acting up for a week—picking up ghost signals that don't exist, that sort of thing. As long as it's broken," she says with a laugh, "I'm free!"

"Spock," T'Sera says, "please forgive me, but I must go."

The advice she had wanted to ask? The conversation that had seemed so necessary? Apparently T'Sera has changed her mind. His earlier hesitation in answering her questions must have made her less willing to share whatever she intended. He stands and offers to walk her back to the apartment building.

"No, stay and enjoy the music," she says, gathering her long robe around her shoulders, and then she walks to the center aisle and is gone.

X X X X X X X X X

The subspace transceiver is still behind the futon, hidden from casual view. T'Sera flicks it on and waits while the static settles.

"_Jolan tru, _Sub-Commander." The voice belongs to a young centurion T'Sera does not know.

"Where is Revnak?" she asks sharply, and the centurion frowns.

"Revnak is no longer assigned to this post," he says. "I am Preton. From now on I will be your contact."

T'Sera feels a flash of annoyance—and fear. _No longer assigned to this post_ is a Romulan euphemism for demoted—or executed.

"Then listen well, Preton," she says. "This will be my last communication from here. Any more and I will be compromised."

"The Praetor will object," the centurion says, and T'Sera scowls broadly into the viewscreen.

"I am the field officer and I decide when it is safe to communicate," she says. "The Praetor will receive my full report when I return."

She flicks off the transceiver and wipes the sweat from her brow. For the first time since she arrived in San Francisco, she isn't wracked with cold.

A/N: Director Alfred Hitchcock said that the difference between **terror** and **suspense** is that terror is when something terrible happens suddenly and unexpectedly; suspense is when you **know** something terrible is going to happen but you don't know when. Hitchcock argued that suspense was more pleasurable than terror in stories; you can only have one moment of terror in a story because your readers are forever alert afterwards...but you can torture them (pleasurably) with sustained suspense until the moment of terror. Hope you agree!

The story dealing with Spock's trip home and his annulment is "Slips of the Tongue." It's the first of a series of S/U stories-it's listed in my profile.

Thanks for letting me know that you are reading this story! And thanks to StarTrekFanWriter for her suggestions! She has many terrific fics; she's in my favorite authors.


	7. What You See

**Chapter Seven: What You See**

**Disclaimer: I'm a tourist, not a resident.**

"Wait up, Susan!"

Nyota sighs and juggles a stack of PADDs in her left arm and two grocery sacks in her right.

"What do you want?" she calls over her shoulder. Jim Kirk bounds up beside her, his arms outstretched.

"Here," he says, tugging on one of the grocery sacks. "Let me help you."

"No!" Nyota says, turning her body away as she treads down the paved pathway leading across the quad. A brief rain storm has left the pathway shiny and wet, and the sun is blinking through the clouds.

"You look like you need a hand," Kirk says, pulling harder and dislodging the bag from Nyota's arm. A cascade of cans and boxes spills out of the bag onto the wet pavement.

"Now look what you did!" Nyota says, genuine irritation in her voice. Kirk scrambles crablike across the pathway gathering up the scattered groceries—and that image siphons away her anger. She laughs, and Kirk looks up, grinning.

"So that's what it takes to get your good will," he says. He replaces the groceries in the bag and falls into step beside her. "So, did you get my note? I've heard back from everyone else except you."

Nyota skirts a puddle and then says, "I haven't decided yet."

"I see," Kirk says, opening the grocery bag and eyeing the contents. "And is there anything I can do to help you decide?" The silly leer on his face makes Nyota laugh again.

"You're incorrigible," she says, and Kirk snorts.

"What's so incorrigible about wanting the best communications student on my team? I'm going to win—I'm going to beat this—and I need you."

Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Kirk steps ahead of her and walks backward.

"Come on, Uhura, please? _Please_?"

Giving in to the inevitable, Nyota sighs.

"When is it again?"

"Tuesday. 0700. McCanless Hall, the simulation lab. Thanks so much! You won't be sorry!"

"0700? I'm already sorry," she says, taking the grocery bag back from Kirk as he darts away across the quad, his arm waving his goodbye.

Looking up, she sees Dr. Stoddard directly ahead of her on the path. For a moment she considers slowing her pace and letting the Vulcan professor go on ahead. _That's ridiculous_, she thinks, resuming her gait. As she comes abreast of Dr. Stoddard, Nyota makes a point of nodding to her.

"Cadet Uhura," Dr. Stoddard says, and once again Nyota is struck by how beautiful she is. Today she is dressed in a traditional Vulcan work outfit—a filmy tunic over tapered trousers—but she looks as elegant as if she were heading to an embassy ball. Every other time that Nyota has seen her, the professor has worn her hair pulled up, but today it is tied back in a simple ponytail that trails over her shoulders.

At the edge of her consciousness, Nyota feels a sliver of disquiet—or jealousy. An image jumps into her mind of Spock and Dr. Stoddard sitting together at the concert last night, Spock's hand reaching forward...or maybe not...a trick of the dim light, perhaps? She's tried to banish the image all day. She beats it back now in disgust.

"Are you on your way to the faculty apartments?" Dr. Stoddard asks, and Nyota jumps inwardly. Stopping by Spock's apartment to drop off a stack of student assignments is innocent enough—though she would rather no one know when she comes and goes. Since Dr. Stoddard lives in the faculty housing as well, running into her is probably unavoidable.

"Yes," she says, and as she does, the damp paper grocery bag Kirk had dropped splits and the same groceries spill once more onto the walkway.

"Crap!" Nyota says, watching a can roll on its side in a semi-circle. She shifts the other bag to the arm holding the PADDs and leans forward, snatching up a soggy box of pasta. When she bends down, two bunches of green vegetables fall out of the bag in her arm.

"Dammit!" she says, and Dr. Stoddard steps forward and says, "Let me."

The Vulcan woman scoops up the groceries in a few moments. She stands upright—her arms full—and she and Nyota exchange a glance. Despite herself, Nyota laughs, and she is certain that Dr. Stoddard's expression is equally amused.

At the apartment building Dr. Stoddard swipes her key card to let them in, but before Nyota can pull out her card to open Spock's apartment, the Vulcan woman holds her comm to his lock and it releases.

"That's handy," Nyota says, and Dr. Stoddard looks down at the comm almost in surprise.

They carry the groceries into the small kitchen and Nyota lets the PADDs drop with a clatter onto the counter.

"This is Commander Spock's late day," she says. "I thought I would stop by the market and pick up a few things."

She glances up to gauge Dr. Stoddard's reaction, and seeing none, she continues as she begins putting the groceries away.

"Since that flu, he hasn't gotten his energy back. I might just put something on to cook…so he can have dinner ready when he gets out of his class."

Again she sneaks a look at Dr. Stoddard. Is preparing a meal for him too revealing? Too intimate? The Vulcan's face is unreadable.

"I should probably let you do it instead," Nyota says, setting out an assortment of unfamiliar vegetables on the countertop. "I'm not very good at Vulcan cuisine."

Now Nyota is sure that she sees the ghost of a smile flit around Dr. Stoddard's face.

"I'm not very good at any cuisine," Dr. Stoddard says. "Cooking is something I have not taken the time to master, though it would be logical to do so."

"Oh, I love to cook!" Nyota says. "It's just….this Vulcan cookbook makes mention of things I have never heard of."

Taking the cookbook in her hand, Dr. Stoddard flips to the index.

"Where did you find a Vulcan cookbook?"

"It's the Commander's. He brought it back from his last trip home," she says. "Like, I don't even know what this is," she says, lifting up a large bunch of green spikey leaves, "but they were beside the plomeek root, so I assumed they were Vulcan in origin."

Dr. Stoddard leans forward and looks at the leaves carefully.

"I cannot identify them," she says, and Nyota sighs. "But that does not mean that they are not indigenous to Vulcan. I spent more time on Earth than Vulcan growing up, and many varieties of native flora are unknown to me."

"Oh, that's right," Nyota says, opening the cooler and placing the perishables inside. "Do you get to Vulcan very often?"

"My grandmother is still there," Dr. Stoddard says, taking the paring knife that Nyota hands her and picking up a potato-like object. "I try to visit several times a year."

Without saying anything, Nyota shows Dr. Stoddard how to scrape the knife across the vegetable in her hand before slicing it into large chunks. They work for a few moments in companionable silence.

"Have you ever been to Vulcan?" Dr. Stoddard asks as Nyota shakes her head and pulls the red clay tagine from a cabinet, placing the vegetable chunks inside. "You said Spock has been there recently?"

"He just got back a few weeks ago," Nyota says. "He went there during the term break."

"I see," Dr. Stoddard says, handing Nyota the last of the cut-up vegetable. "And would you like—"

An insistent chiming interrupts her. Pulling her comm from her pocket, Dr. Stoddard glances at the ID and flips it open.

"Yes?" she says, stepping out of the kitchen and into the living area. Nyota tries not to eavesdrop, busying herself with cutting up a different vegetable for the tagine. By the time she has finished, Dr. Stoddard pokes her head back into the kitchen.

"Please excuse me," she says, "but I have urgent business to attend to."

"Certainly," Nyota says, surprised. Did Dr. Stoddard feel obligated in some way to stay and keep her company—the way a human acquaintance might? "Maybe later you can stop in and have some supper? I'm sure Commander Spock will be glad to share it with you. You did help prepare it, after all."

"Most kind," Dr. Stoddard says, but later, after the professor has shut the front door behind her, Nyota realizes that she doesn't know whether the Vulcan professor will return or not.

X X X X X X X

The transport station nearest the faculty apartment is a bare, utilitarian gray building. T'Sera walks through it once before turning back and re-entering. Choosing a seat nearest the side door, she sits and appears to be looking at the illuminated display board.

When the door opens, she looks up at the hooded figure who enters. Only a few other passengers are inside, most sitting on benches or standing at the ticket kiosk.

The hooded figure glides swiftly to where T'Sera sits and takes the bench across from her.

"Any progress with the Commander?" the figure asks, and T'Sera shakes her head marginally.

"That is a side issue," she says softly. "I told you, you have me. You don't need him."

"Do we have you? Unconditionally?" The figure leans forward, the face inside the hood unseen.

"You know you do," T'Sera says with some heat. How _dare_ they question her now. She takes a cleansing breath and calms her racing heartbeat.

The figure slowly nods.

"Within the week we should have the information you need. A courier will contact you when it is ready to transfer. In the meantime, this may help you with the Commander."

Standing and moving closer to T'Sera, the hooded figure drops a data disc into her palm.

"What is it?" T'Sera asks, and the hooded figure shrugs.

"Details from the Commander's recent trip home. Make use of it if you can."

And with that, the figure exits through the nearby door.

**A/N: Check very soon for the next chapter...things are about to heat up...let me know if you are still hanging in there!  
**

**Thanks to StarTrekFanWriter for her reading and suggesting. Check out her many fics in my faves.**


	8. The Second Lie

**Chapter Eight: The Second Lie**

**Disclaimer: I make no money from spying on these characters and reporting what I see.**

When T'Sera touches the door, it swings forward with a slight rasp.

"Nyota?" Spock calls from inside the apartment. T'Sera pauses. That name again.

Instead of answering, she pushes the door open further and steps inside. She hears footfalls in the kitchen, and then suddenly Spock is there, an odd look on his face. Disappointment? Surprise?

"Your door was open," T'Sera says by way of explanation.

Spock says nothing and T'Sera adds, "Your assistant said you were offering dinner tonight. A traditional meal."

Something dark passes over his expression, but Spock's tone reveals nothing.

"If you wish," he says, turning back to the kitchen. T'Sera follows him, noting the hesitation in his walk.

"You are still unwell?" she asks, and Spock shakes his head.

"A long day. Would you care to eat now?"

"Only if you will join me," T'Sera says.

The red tagine is sitting on top of the cooker, the domed top set aside on the counter. From where she is standing, T'Sera watches Spock spoon some of the vegetable mixture into two bowls, handing one to her and carrying the other with him to the sofa in the living area. When he sits on the sofa, she takes the chair nearby.

"Your assistant is a careful cook," T'Sera says, forking a piece of carrot and taking a tentative taste.

"She is diligent in all things," Spock says. An odd comment—or perhaps her nervousness about what she has to do tonight is making her assign meaning where none is. She swallows and takes a breath.

"The other night—" T'Sera begins, and Spock looks up quickly.

"You said you needed my advice," he supplies, and she nods.

"I am not sure where to begin," T'Sera says, though in fact, she has rehearsed this conversation many times. "At the beginning, I suppose."

She looks down at her bowl and then sneaks a look up at Spock. He is motionless and quiet, watching her.

"As you know, my major area of research for the past few years has been Federation history." She waits to see if Spock responds, and after a moment, he nods. "In particular, I have studied the Romulan-Federation War….but unlike many of my colleagues, I think we have much to learn about our future dealings with the Romulans based on our failed policies in the past."

Again she waits. Spock sets his bowl on the side table and says, "You of all people should be skeptical about using history as the sole guide for determining current political policy. That sort of fallacious thinking was discredited centuries ago."

"Only because past historians were unable to apply a stringent algorithm—I believe we can learn from history and choose actions based on likely outcomes."

"T'Sera, why are you telling me this?"

"The other night, I asked you if you were content to remain here at the Academy, or at Starfleet. You did not answer me. Do not speak now—just listen. What if you were given a chance to serve the Federation in a larger way? Would you consider it?"

Tilting his head, Spock says, "I can make no judgment without more information."

"Then you are not rejecting the idea outright?" T'Sera says, and Spock shakes his head, his brow furrowed. T'Sera sets aside her own bowl and moves to the sofa, sitting next to Spock.

"Listen. Some Vulcan members of the Federation are trying to re-establish contact with the Romulans. Yes, I know Federation law prohibits it—the supposed lessons of the war. But what if the real lesson from the war is that our two peoples need to reunify? Both would be stronger with the other—"

"Romulan society is based on principles of conquest and domination," Spock says. T'Sera hears the shock in his voice, and she reaches her hand to his arm.

"Now—because they know nothing else. If they were invited to rejoin—"

She lets her words drift off.

"Spock," she says, "you and I long ago discovered that we have much in common. We understand how difficult it is to live as Vulcans in a human world. Every day we navigate between two worlds—and we do it well. The Romulans who want to learn the ways of Vulcan will need people like us who can show them how to reconcile their conflicting impulses."

"You do not even know that such Romulans exist," Spock says.

Taking a breath, T'Sera says, "The Vulcan intelligence agency knows."

"And the Vulcan High Command? Or the Federation Council? How have they responded to this idea of re-unification?"

"They are not privy to the information. Yet."

"Then the Vulcan intelligence agency is in violation of the Federation charter. Their actions are a betrayal."

For several minutes Spock is silent, and T'Sera watches him closely. When she can wait no longer, she says, "That last time when we met in my grandmother's summer house…"

Spock's gaze rivets to hers.

"We….did not...finish what we started…because you had other commitments," she says, suddenly feeling shy. She looks down. "But we do not need to stop now."

She looks up then, lifting her fingers gently to his face. His expression does not change, but she hears his breathing catch.

"We….understand each other," she says, pulling her fingers across his temple. The air in the room seems to still, and she feels herself flush. "There is work of great import we could do together. Now that you no longer have a bondmate—"

Spock's hand darts to her own and pulls it away.

"What do you mean?"

"Your annulment—" T'Sera says, but Spock interrupts.

"How do you know about my annulment? I have told no one. Or is this also information from Vulcan intelligence?"

Clearly angry, Spock lets go of T'Sera's hand.

"Your assistant," she says quickly. "We spoke today about your trip home. I apologize. I should not have asked about your personal matters."

"She does not..." Spock begins.

A sudden jiggle from the door lock catches them both off guard. The door swings open, and there is Nyota, a small bag in her hand.

"Oh!" she says, clearly surprised to see T'Sera. "I'm glad you came back for dinner after all, Dr. Stoddard."

"I was just leaving," T'Sera says. "Please, come have your meal."

Pulling an ornate bottle from the bag, Nyota says, "The deli didn't have any Vulcan hot sauce, but the guy there promised this would knock us over. Don't leave until you've tried it."

"Thank you," T'Sera says, "but I have overstayed my welcome already. You need some livelier company—like your young man I saw you with earlier today."

As T'Sera speaks she turns to see Spock's reaction—and there—like the corner of a curtain pulled back and let go again—she sees what she is looking for, a tiny flicker of annoyance and alarm—a possessiveness that tells her what she needs to know.

X X X X X X X X X X

T'Sera sees the shadow in the apartment stairwell a fraction of a second before she feels a hand from behind her muffing her mouth.

"Do not resist," a voice near her ear says softly. "If you do, I will injure you."

As if to make his point, the man covering her mouth pushes a hard object into her side. A phaser? Undoubtedly. She stops struggling against her attacker, and when she is still, he releases her.

Whirling around, T'Sera sees a hooded figure, male, tall and stocky. A slight scuffing noise causes her to look up the stairwell, and there is another hooded figure, this one clearly pointing a phaser at her.

"What's the meaning of this?" she says, her heart hammering as she plays for time. Identify the assailants first, and then decide what to do, she thinks. Giving herself a plan helps slow her racing heart.

"You've been out of communication," the hooded figure says. His Standard is oddly accented—though whether he is Vulcan or Romulan isn't clear. She has to know which—her life depends on it. T'Sera tilts her head and angles for a better look at the man's face.

"Communication is difficult," she says. The figure up above her on the stairs shifts audibly.

"Naturally," the man closer to her says. "But the Praetor isn't pleased with the delay."

Romulans, then. T'Sera feels the hair on the back of her neck prickle up. Romulans on Earth, probably passing as Vulcans—possibly even working for the Vulcan embassy. Taking a deep breath, she takes a forceful step towards the closer man.

"You dare speak for the Praetor? He knows that I will not initiate contact until I have the information I came for. Why are you here—in public? You may have compromised this mission!" she says with as much anger as she can summon into her voice. Her show of strength has the desired effect, and the hooded figure slumps slightly, a gesture of submission.

"But Sub-Commander," the hooded figure says, "you are overdue. And you have been in close contact with this Vulcan—"

He raises his hand and gestures down the hall towards Spock's apartment.

"You fool!" T'Sera says. "He works at the Academy. He lives in this building. Of course I have been in contact."

"Forgive me," the robed man says, "but I was ordered to investigate—to make sure that you haven't betrayed us."

The figure in the stairwell above her starts down the steps, and when he reaches the bottom, both figures stand for a moment facing T'Sera. Is this the moment of execution, she wonders?

"Make haste, Sub-Commander," the second man says. "The longer you are here, the more likely you are to be discovered—and many people are waiting on the information you were sent to get."

"You do not need to tell me my duty," T'Sera says coolly, and after a beat, both men turn and glide down the hallway and exit the front door.

When she judges that her voice is steady, T'Sera heads down the hall and presses the chime on Spock's door. In a moment it swings open, Spock standing with his hand still on the knob.

"May I come in?" T'Sera asks. "We have an emergency."

**A/N: Those sneaky Romulans! And Vulcans! Hope this isn't too confusing...the reveal is very soon. Any guesses about what's going on?  
**

**Thanks to everyone who reads and reviews! If you haven't already read StarTrekFanWriter's "The Good Father," she finished it up yesterday. It's in my faves, along with many of her other terrific fics.**


	9. The Plan

**Chapter Nine: The Plan**

**Disclaimer: I neither own nor profit from these characters.**

Spock steps away from the door and Dr. Stoddard comes inside. From her seat on the sofa, Nyota watches Spock shut the door as the Vulcan woman walks to the chair and sits down. Spock follows her, sitting on the sofa.

"Do you want me to leave?" Nyota says, not sure if she is speaking to Spock or Dr. Stoddard. Both look at her, and then Dr. Stoddard says, "It might be best."

Nyota feels rather than sees Spock tense up. He leans fractionally forward, and Dr. Stoddard glances up at him and then down again.

"You may speak freely in front of my assistant," Spock says, and the Vulcan adjunct professor says, "Very well."

"I…am under surveillance," she says at last, and Nyota's mind whirls. Why would a historian be under surveillance? And by whom? She darts a glance at Spock, but he says nothing.

Dr. Stoddard clasps her hands together in her lap and sighs.

"Romulan operatives know that I have been here," she says. "I may have put you in danger."

"Why are Romulans watching you?" Nyota says, but it is Spock who answers.

"You are working for the Romulans."

Nyota feels a shock run through her. Dr. Stoddard, a spy? She watches as the Vulcan woman nods slowly.

"I am a sub-commander in the Romulan military," the adjunct professor says.

"Then, you aren't a Vulcan?" Nyota asks, her head still spinning.

"I am a Vulcan," Dr. Stoddard says, looking Nyota in the eye. "Two years ago I was approached by Vulcan intelligence about infiltrating the Romulan military. They had information suggesting a massive weapons build-up—and the possibility that the Romulans were planning an attack across the Neutral Zone. For the past seventeen months I have worked for Vulcan counterintelligence, passing as a Romulan."

"A double agent," Nyota says, and Dr. Stoddard agrees. From the corner of her eye Nyota sees Spock stir.

"How are you able to go undetected as a Vulcan?" he asks. "Although Vulcans and Romulans share a common ancestry, we do have genetic markers that would be apparent on a scanner."

Nyota is surprised to see Dr. Stoddard flush, a tinge of dusky green creeping up her neck and across her cheeks.

"Vulcan scientists developed a DNA masker," the Vulcan woman says. "An individual who has been treated with the masker appears to be a Romulan when scanned. The Vulcan genomic markers don't register."

"It's a virus," Nyota says, suddenly remembering Dr. Stoddard's comments about making Spock sick with the Somorian flu. "The masker is transmitted with a virus."

"Yes," Dr. Stoddard says, looking up at Spock. "Normally the symptoms are very mild—"

Suddenly Spock's expression is as furious as Nyota has ever seen it. Sensing that he is about to stand, she places her hand beside him on the sofa—not touching, but a signal. _Calm down_, she thinks, as she listens to his heavy breathing.

"You infected me," Spock says, not even trying to conceal his anger. "Your talk of working for the Federation—of bigger plans—you were sent to recruit me."

"Not as a primary concern," Dr. Stoddard says swiftly. "But while I was here, it was logical to offer you the opportunity to serve. However," she adds, "the DNA marker did not work as planned for you. The human elements were too different—and your illness was a result. For that, I am sorry."

For several moments no one speaks. Nyota hears Spock's breathing slowing—she knows he is struggling to get control of his anger. She feels anger, too, about Dr. Stoddard's making Spock ill—but mostly she is confused. Infecting Spock without his consent might have seemed logical to the Vulcans running their intelligence agency, but it was a stupid decision for dealing with Spock. If he had been in any way tempted to leave Starfleet and join the counterintelligence movement, he would not be now.

Taking a deep breath, Spock at last says, "You said we might be in danger."

Dr. Stoddard nods.

"I have been out of communication with my Romulan contacts too long," she says. "The Academy cadets kept noticing my subspace signal."

"The sensor array!" Nyota says, putting the pieces together. "That was you."

"Romulan operatives here in San Francisco have approached me—"

"When?" Spock says sharply, and both women look up.

"A few minutes ago," Dr. Stoddard says, flushing again. "In the hallway. I've bought some time, but they are suspicious of me now. And of you."

"Then you're through," Nyota says. "You can't go back to Romulus if they suspect you."

Leaning so that his elbows are on his knees, Spock says, "T'Sera, you must tell Vulcan intelligence that you cannot return to Romulus. If you do—"

"If I do," Dr. Stoddard says, "I could be executed. The Romulan military is paranoid in the extreme. Officers expend a great deal of energy proving their loyalty—and watching for signs of disaffection among their troops."

Spock sits back against the sofa and steeples his fingers, a habit Nyota sees him do when he is deep in thought. "T'Sera," he says after a moment, "you spoke of Romulans who desire a rapprochement with Vulcan. Surely they are a minority view."

"They are," Dr. Stoddard says, "but they are growing in number. The re-unification movement is a schism in Romulan society that the government will not be able to silence. But that concern pales in light of what may happen next."

She pauses for a moment and looks at both Spock and Nyota.

"I am convinced," Dr. Stoddard says, "that the Romulan Empire will mount a full-scale initiative against either Vulcan or Earth in the near future. I do not know when, nor am I sure where."

Nyota feels the Vulcan woman's eyes boring into her own and she tries not to look away.

"I may be the only person able to gather that intelligence," Dr. Stoddard says. "I have to go back to Romulus to get it."

"But you could be killed," Nyota says, and Spock adds, "Your actions are not logical."

Dr. Stoddard nods and says, "Both are true. But sometimes one has to proceed anyway—in the face of danger, and despite the lack of logic in doing what is necessary."

Spock starts to speak, but she rushes on.

"On the other hand, if you will assist me, I may know a way to convince the Romulans that you are no threat to them—and that I am still a loyal operative."

The Vulcan woman smooths a lock of her auburn hair from her face, and when she does, Nyota sees clearly that she is sweaty. As it always is, Spock's apartment is warm—but Nyota has never heard a Vulcan complain of the heat. Dr. Stoddard must be nervous.

"Explain," Spock says, and the adjunct professor takes a breath.

"It will be dangerous," she says, "but I see no other way to proceed. Here's my plan."

**A/N: A double agent! That might change how you feel about T'Sera-or not!**

**Thanks to StarTrekFanWriter for her suggestions! Thanks to everyone who takes the time to read and review!**


	10. The Double Cross

**Chapter Ten: The Double Cross**

**Disclaimer: These characters do stuff and I report it—but I make no money from it.**

The campus is unusually bright—the early morning fog has long burned away, and the predicted midday rainstorm has skirted San Francisco and dumped its water on Sausalito instead.

T'Sera glances up at the clouds as she exits the humanities building and makes her way across the quad towards the language lab. She's met with students three times now for an interdisciplinary class devoted to the music and art of the early Terran space exploration era. In another life, she would have enjoyed being on the Academy faculty, collaborating with colleagues, teaching students from across the Federation.

That was the kind of life she had always imagined—until members of the Vulcan intelligence agency approached her two years ago.

With an effort, T'Sera puts those thoughts aside—they will only bring regrets. Instead, she focuses on watching for Spock. For five days now she has made a point of meeting him in public. She knows that the Romulans assigned to surveille her have noticed.

At least, she hopes they have.

Walking slowly past the language building, T'Sera notes the time: 1230, the end of the first long morning class. Sure enough, the glass doors swing open and students begin streaming out of the building. She needs a plausible reason to kill time while waiting for Spock. T'Sera scans the crowd for a familiar face and sees a student from her advising section. She will do.

"Maria," T'Sera says as the blonde cadet meets her eye. "Were you able to adjust your schedule to your satisfaction?"

The cadet stops on the steps and grins. How easy it is to bring pleasure to these young people—a little personal attention and they are so…cheerful.

"Oh, thank you, Dr. Stoddard," the cadet says. "I did. I appreciate your help."

T'Sera nods and the cadet starts back down the steps. From her place on the lawn, T'Sera notes that the initial surge of students exiting the building is over, that the stragglers coming down the steps now are the last from their classes.

And finally there is Nyota, carrying an armload of PADDs, and Spock walking stiffly beside her, a briefcase in one hand.

T'Sera waits at the bottom of the marble stairs as they make their way toward her.

"Dr. Stoddard!" Nyota calls. "We are going to lunch. Would you care to join us?"

"Indeed," T'Sera says. As Nyota and Spock come closer, T'Sera scans the nearby students. A couple of groups linger, talking and laughing—nothing suspicious. Perhaps it won't be today after all.

Or maybe not ever. If her plan doesn't work, she will have to give up her work with Vulcan intelligence. Unless she can convince the Romulans that she is still working on their behalf, she can't return to Romulus with the fake documents—documents that give inaccurate and wildly optimistic estimates of Federation outposts near the Neutral Zone.

Would that be so bad, giving up that work?

"Do you need some help?" she says to Nyota, offering to carry some of the PADDs. The younger woman shakes her head.

"Thanks, but I've got them," she says. T'Sera sees her glance up at Spock—and sees him give her a look pregnant with some unspoken meaning. Protectiveness? Certainly, and why not? T'Sera has warned them that the plan is dangerous.

But something else, too. Possessiveness? Affection?

No one has ever looked at her quite that way.

As they make their way across the quad towards the cafeteria, T'Sera trains her gaze on the people passing them. Two tall men wearing rain gear are coming toward them on the pathway, and T'Sera says softly, "Get ready."

The men have their hoods up on their heads, but even from here T'Sera can see that their skin tone is dusky, alien. She angles off the paved path abruptly and the men change direction to follow her.

"Dr. Stoddard!" Spock calls, and T'Sera hears Nyota echo him. She resists turning back yet—instead, she seeks out the gaze of the two men who have closed the distance and are now standing only a few feet away.

"We know you have the plans," the shorter man says, and T'Sera recognizes the voice of the man in the stairwell. "Why have you delayed your departure?"

"I decide when I leave," T'Sera says. "Are you questioning my loyalty?"

"Hand over the plans and prove your loyalty," the second man says, and T'Sera scoffs.

"I give the plans to no one but the Praetor himself. You might be an agent for the Vulcans."

She sees the man react as she had hoped he would—with anger—and as he reaches to grab her arm, she hears Spock and Nyota calling her again.

"Dr. Stoddard," Spock says, his voice growing louder as he hurries toward her, "do you require assistance?"

"You fools!" T'Sera says to the two men. "You have drawn unnecessary attention!"

Pulling a small weapon from her pocket, she waves it past the two men and then swivels towards Spock.

"Stop!" she shouts, and Spock pauses fifty feet from where T'Sera and the men stand. Behind him, T'Sera can see Nyota easing forward and a small knot of students slowing in their passage on the paved path.

"Stop!" she shouts again, and Nyota stops. "If you have transport, get it ready."

This last sentence is aimed at the two men—and they both pull out comms. The taller man flips his open.

"You do not have to do this," Spock says, and T'Sera shakes her head slowly.

"I am sorry, Spock," she says. Her voice wavers slightly—a measure of emotion she is unable to hide.

"You can seek asylum here," Spock says, taking a step forward. "If you choose to apply, I will sponsor you—"

He takes another step, and T'Sera lifts the weapon higher.

"Stay back," she says to him, and then to the men standing next to her, she says, "Are you ready?"

"The transporter chief is locking on now," the taller man says, and T'Sera sees Spock taking another step in her direction.

"I am sorry," she says, pulling the trigger. A loud explosion rings out—and Spock clutches his abdomen, takes one final staggering step forward, and falls. Nyota rushes to him and kneels, placing her hand on him and lifting up her fingers. They are covered in emerald blood.

Horror in her eyes, Nyota turns to T'Sera and says, "But you said—"

And then T'Sera feels the familiar disorientation of being engulfed in a transporter beam—and the last thing she sees is a crowd of students, rushing forward and circling the sad tableau on the ground.

**A/N: Thanks for letting me know you are still reading!**

**Thanks to StarTrekFanWriter for reading and suggesting!**


	11. Denouement

**Chapter Eleven: Denouement**

**Disclaimer: I do not profit from writing about these characters, except in a metaphoric, symbolic, fuzzy-wuzzy sense.**

"You should have told me!"

Nyota stands in the doorway of the kitchen in Spock's apartment, one hand on the door frame, the other holding an empty tea kettle. Spock is stretched out on the sofa, his hair disheveled, a large gash across his brow and down his cheek.

"T'Sera deemed it inadvisable," he says quietly, and Nyota feels a stab of remorse. Talking aggravates the headache he is nursing from his fall forward onto the pavement when T'Sera shot the blank at him. His bloodied tee—courtesy of a handheld bladder of green gel—has been changed into a simple black one.

"I thought she was just going to stun you with a phaser. She didn't trust me," Nyota says, setting the kettle on the counter and coming back into the living area. She stands for a moment looking down at Spock—he really does look dreadful—before sitting gingerly on the side of the sofa and taking his hand in hers.

Immediately she is flooded with a rip-roaring pain in her head—and Spock pulls his hand away.

Like most men that Nyota knows—her father, her brother—Spock is a terrible patient. Despite her appeal to take an analgesic, he insists that he can master his pain. Obviously he hasn't yet. She _tsks_ over him and is rewarded with a raised eyebrow.

"At least let me make you some more tea," she says, but Spock closes his eyes—_no_. When he opens them back up, Nyota is still looking at him.

"It is not a matter of trust," Spock says, and for a moment Nyota is confused. Ah, T'Sera. "She was making use of the human capacity to express surprise. Your dismay was quite believable—more so, I think, than if you had been coached ahead of time."

"That's awful," Nyota says, tentatively stroking Spock's hand. The searing pain is still there. She senses his unease at revealing his level of pain and she takes her hand away. "She was using me. She wanted me to look upset."

"Her life depended on it," Spock says softly, and Nyota looks down at his face. He closes his eyes again, sweat beading across his brow.

"What will happen to her now?"

"Uncertain."

"But she'll be safer?"

"That was her intention," Spock says, his brows knit, his eyes still closed.

Nyota shifts carefully on the sofa. For several of her teenaged years, she had occasionally been felled by migraines so sudden and severe that movement was agony and light was like a lance. While she waited for the medication to ease her pain, her mother would sit at her side, like this, gently distracting her with stories and feather-light touches on her forearm. She reaches out her forefinger and rubs it so softly across Spock's wrist that she herself can barely feel it.

His eyes snap open, and for a moment, Nyota expects him to tell her to stop.

But he doesn't.

"Does this help?" she whispers, and Spock blinks once. She strokes his wrist again, this time with more pressure.

Again his headache flares through her fingers, but instead of jerking away, Nyota tries to imagine the headache as her own—with her mother sitting by her side, singing a wordless tune, tickling her hand down her arm.

Her mother is dressed in the sort of flowing gown she wears while she is home—something both silky and solid, and brightly colored, orange or lime or lemon yellow when she is happy; russet or plum or somber gray when she is less so.

In this image her mother's warm brown face leans over, her light green scarf wound gaily around her hair. As always she smells of sandalwood and smoke, and Nyota sighs with the nearness of the memory.

She feels Spock watching the scene, his curiosity piqued. Nyota has told him little about her mother or her relationship with her—a loving one, though one fraught with tension since Nyota has been at the Academy.

"She has nothing against the Academy—or Starfleet," Nyota says aloud, but as she does, she feels Spock's pain heighten from the noise of her voice. She lifts her finger from his hand and circles his other wrist with her thumb and forefinger and waits a moment for the wave of pain to wash over her. There, underneath it, she feels the familiar buzz of his mind, closer now.

_Then why-?_ Spock sends a query across their link and Nyota smiles—he must be feeling a little better. _Mother has nothing against the service, except that it is keeping me away from home, and will take me farther from home one day._

Like a dark room suddenly illuminated, a scene flashes into Nyota's mind, and she knows without being told that it is the kitchen of Spock's home on Vulcan. On one wall are several long trough-like sinks filled with fresh vegetables and greenery. An adjacent wall of stone and clay is open to the outside patio, the oversized doors folded back to allow the breeze to blow through. In the center of the room is a rough-hewn wooden table, and at it sits a petite woman, her hair pulled away from her face, revealing rounded, human ears.

_Your mother_, Nyota says, and Spock shows her his favorite image of his mother, sitting drinking a cup of tea, her face peaceful, the morning sun barely edging up over the ridge of the nearest mountain.

_And this_, Spock says, showing Nyota the next part of his image—his mother's face lighting up when he wakes and patters into the kitchen to share a cup of tea with her—her delight in his presence broadcast in the crinkle of her eyes and in her unabashed smile.

It is only in these private moments that his mother allows her human emotions full play—showering her son with signs of her love for him. He rarely responds—or rather, he rarely comments—but Amanda's joy seems undiminished.

_Our mothers are much alike_, Nyota thinks, though she isn't sure if the idea is hers or Spock's. Or both.

With a start, she realizes that Spock's headache is gone. She opens her eyes and sees him looking at her. Unexpectedly she is uncomfortable and shy under his steady gaze, and she pulls her hands back into her lap.

"You feel up to a cup of tea?" she asks, offering to stand, but something in Spock's expression stops her. "What is it? Tell me," she says.

But he doesn't, and she doesn't press him. She's fairly sure she knows what he is thinking about—T'Sera, and the danger she has gone to.

Spock had mentioned briefly that he met T'Sera at a party at his parents' house—perhaps in that very kitchen she has just seen in his memory—and that they had stayed in touch.

Staying in touch with Spock would be a challenge—Nyota tries to imagine what would happen if she herself moved away, left the Academy or even Starfleet. Would their relationship—however it is evolving—continue? In so many ways Spock is self-contained, independent, capable of living alone, being alone….if she moved away right now, would he stay in touch? Call her? Write to her? Visit her?

She doesn't know.

Would she call him, write to him, visit him? Of course. She would make sure they _stayed in touch_.

Is that what Dr. Stoddard—T'Sera—had to do?

"Tea?" she asks again, but Spock lifts his arm from his side and reaches for her instead, tugging her around the waist and pulling her down beside him on the sofa. She's startled but pleasantly so by this uncharacteristic show of affection—and when he tips her over towards him so that her head rests on his shoulder, she is sure that she feels him sigh—not from sorrow, or exhaustion, but from contentment, and she closes her eyes and is prepared to stay right there, in his arms, all night if he will let her.

**A/N: The "denouement" of a story is the tying up of loose ends. There were a lot to tie up...and some are still dangling...like what's happening to T'Sera as she heads back to Romulus with fake information from the Vulcan intelligence agency...**

**If this story had too many twists and turns for you (giving you whiplash!), you might prefer a different pace in the story I'm working on now. It's set when Nyota first becomes Spock's TA, and it focuses on the things we think we know about Spock and tells some of his back story. I hope you will enjoy it.**

**Thanks for all the terrific, thoughtful reviews! You made writing this story great fun!**

**Thanks, as always, to StarTrekFanWriter. She reads and gives good advice before I inflict anything on you, dear reader. Check out her newest story, What Feels Right, in my faves.**


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